


Fire Made Flesh

by madeinessos



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daenerys Targaryen Lives, F/F, Gen, Post-Canon, Revolutionaries In Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeinessos/pseuds/madeinessos
Summary: “Where?” rasped Daenerys Targaryen. “Where am I? Tell me.”Her nails bit through Kinvara’s silks. Demanding, furious, suspicious, like a god. It made Kinvara smile. After all, it was she who had brought life to those fingers.





	Fire Made Flesh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRaven/gifts).



The woman was gasping on Kinvara’s shoulder. Warm, wet, gulping gasps. Her grip on Kinvara’s upper arms was fierce. The burst of strength in them did not shock Kinvara, no more than the rush of hungry heat in those naked limbs did.

No more than the jolt of life in Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes had.

In a rustling of silk, Kinvara wrapped her arms around Daenerys Targaryen. Gently, gently. To soothe. To anchor. Daenerys Targaryen shuddered but clung on, turning her head slightly so that her mouth was now gasping against the side of Kinvara’s neck, just below her necklace. Hot puffs of life. The press of sweaty flesh on the outside of Kinvara’s crimson silks. And inside her red silks, the sweat dripping between her breasts, from the hours of labour and faith and determination. Moist and sensuous kisses, blooming on Kinvara's red silks, insinuating. Never filthy, not for Kinvara. Cleansing. Satisfying. Intoxicating. A delicious exhaustion.

Fires leapt and crackled in the hearth and in the braziers. The chamber glowed red.

“There we are,” Kinvara murmured in High Valyrian. This was her city, her only home, like it or not. They would not speak the tongue of the Sunset Kingdoms. “There we are.”

She ran her fingers through Daenerys Targaryen’s uneven hair. Kinvara had taken locks and locks and locks of it to her fires.

“Where?” rasped Daenerys Targaryen. “Where am I? Tell me.”

Her nails bit through Kinvara’s silks. Demanding, furious, suspicious, like a god. It made Kinvara smile. After all, it was she who had brought life to those fingers.

“The Temple of the Lord of Light, of course,” said Kinvara. “In Old Volantis.”

Daenerys Targaryen lifted her head. Her eyes were luminous. Pits of fire. Shudders still whispered through her, echoes of the strength and the force of Kinvara’s power.

“The last kiss,” continued Kinvara, still smiling. “I gave you the kiss of life, Daenerys Targaryen. Do you remember me?’’

This Westerosi, this Daenerys Targaryen, frowned. Shadows flitted through her bright eyes, like Kinvara knew they would.

Then Daenerys Targaryen ripped away from her.

Daenerys Targaryen scrambled back along the length of the red slab of stone. She held her hands in front of her defensively, though it did little to protect her nor to conceal the gape above her heart. She didn’t take her eyes away from Kinvara. “You?” she said, voice still hoarse. “I – I live?”

Kinvara remained still, and mild. “You live, yes. You are brought back to life. I made you thus. Do you remember me?”

Daenerys Targaryen was still staring. “No.”

“Well, do you remember Tyrion Lannister? Or the eunuch Varys?”

“I – the names, I know them.” Daenerys Targaryen licked her dry lips. She frowned. “Yes. I remember. But their faces. I can’t pin down their faces. But I know them. Treason. Betrayal. Turncoats.”

“Yes,” said Kinvara. “This rite has a price. They slip and slide, do they not, your memories from your previous life? All that is left are impressions. How you felt. Glops of paint in a shadowy chamber. Almost dream-like. A single instance of this kiss peels you thus.” After a beat, Kinvara added, “I met with Tyrion Lannister and Varys once in Meereen, in the name of the slaves of Volantis. My name is Kinvara, High Priestess of Volantis.”

“Who are you, then?” Daenerys Targaryen lowered her hands. She straightened her shoulders. “Who are you, Kinvara? Why should I trust you?”

Kinvara laughed a little. “Other than the fact that I brought you back to life? But no matter. I understand.” Her smile came easily, warmly. Kinvara felt burningly alive for the first time in years, right down to her fingertips. “What do you see?”

“Your cheek. A red tattoo.” Daenerys Targaryen tilted her head. “Your neck, a ruby.”

She knew what Daenerys Targaryen saw. The tattoo of fire, unglamoured this time, marking her for a slave of Volantis. Flowing red silks splotched with sweat. The ruby throbbing with power. Glowing fingertips, thanks to Kinvara’s alchemy tricks, as well as the rich redness glinting in Kinvara’s eyes and limning Kinvara’s long dark hair.

But what Daenerys Targaryen did not see were the tears Kinvara had shed as a child when she was being branded on the cheek, sold to the temple in rags, still smelling of the salt of seawater and the moldy bread of the ship's belly. She did not see Kinvara as a young woman, burning with resentment and determination in equal measure, scowling at the distant walls of the Old Blood and studying her art late into the night. She did not see Kinvara wrestling with her faith in the Lord of the Light. An inner struggle, an inner battle, an inner war with herself, waging whilst all around her in the Temple peace reigned, and all around the Temple, slavery was the way of life; the Old Blood had their right to vote and their luxuries hoarded inside the Black Walls, and the voted rulers rode decorated elephants, dared not touch the ground with their feet; and the slaves, who toiled to make life possible in Volantis, rattled and clanked and cleaned the dung of the elephants. She did not see the torn soles of Kinvara's shoes, the mud on them, the grit. She did not see Kinvara’s shuddering realisation: that the Lord was only as strong as Kinvara was, as Kinvara would be. There was only Kinvara, and in Kinvara’s image, the promise of the Lord, the promise in the flames about three dragons now loose in the world. She did not see the alarmed shaking of the head of the now-dead High Priest when Kinvara had told him of her realisation. Heretic, he had cried. Blasphemous. No true instrument of the Lord. She did not see the dirt under Kinvara’s fingernails, nor the blood. She did not see Kinvara stood on top of the steps of the Temple, preaching and swaying followers numbering by the hundreds and then the thousands, growing every day, tattooed faces alight with hope and blazing with resolve when Kinvara spoke of the champion of the Lord of Light, Kinvara's champion who would anchor them all in the looming revolt against the Old Blood.

Daenerys Targaryen was silent for a long while. Her gaze was burning with intent, but in it Kinvara saw wariness and resolve, a lick of danger and a searing hunger. In it Kinvara saw Kinvara’s fire.

At last Daenerys Targaryen spoke. “I see fire. I see my Drogon.”

_**fin** _


End file.
